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by soundthebells (kosy)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, References to Not-Sasha, ish, looked at two already fucked-up and depressing arcs and went hey what if—, mostly set just before the Prentiss attack, no longer totally canon compliant as of mag162 😔👊
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23195746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells
Summary: They hadn't gone back to Tim's flat with a bottle of wine with any particular intent in mind; they're just not those types of people. But with everything gold-tinged and warm and blurred at two a.m, it's hard to remember that, and Tim's not entirely sure he wants to. Anyway, he and Sasha are friends. They're—good together. They fit.
Relationships: Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 27
Kudos: 83





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**Author's Note:**

> this isn't the type of fic i usually write but my friend and i were talking about the respective tragedies of sasha and tim, and then i went "hey, why not both?" so here we are! hope you all enjoy this :)

“Sasha—” Tim protests weakly, but she’s on a roll, and there’s no stopping Sasha James when she gets like this.

 _“No,_ Tim,” she says, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “Listen to me, alright, you talk all the damn time; that’s not a criticism, by the way, just a fact. I am telling you about—about—” She slumps back against the arm of the sofa and squints at him with a clearly accusatory air. “You made me _forget—”_

“It’s not _my_ fault!” he yelps indignantly. “Listen, Sash, if you can’t remember your _spooooooky_ Artifact Storage storg— _story,_ fuck off, don’t look at me like that—that’s hardly—”

She huffs out a laugh and levers herself upright again, close enough that Tim can see how her cheeks are alcohol-flushed, that small scattering of freckles thrown into relief even in the dim yellowish light of his flat. “Y’ can’t stop me from blaming you anyway, _Timothy,”_ she grins, using his full name like a weapon in implicit response to the nickname. _Sash._ She’d never let anyone else call her by it, claims she doesn't like her perfectly good name being turned into a noun. There’s something wonderful, something quiet and burning and proud, in being somebody’s exception.

(Sasha is not the type to have nicknames, and she stares blankly at anybody who tries to call her by one.)

It’s hard to think with her face so close, warm brown eyes hazy and flecked with amber, so he manages a vaguely raspy “Yeah, fair enough,” in reply, which makes her snicker, fingers fumbling to brush over his forearm for no good reason. His arm hairs stand on end, and he has to repress a shiver. Sasha’s a physically affectionate drunk, always has been, even back when they were just acquaintances who went to the pub together sometimes. Not so much with Jon, though she’s been known to sling an arm around his shoulder in a show of camaraderie that Jon’s too awkward to shrug off but too repressed to return. With Martin and Tim, though, she’s all touch, handsy in an amiable, comfortable way that was always fully appropriate between friends, a way Tim never thought twice about until now, apparently, one on one in his flat. It’s not like it’s the first time he and Sash have been alone together either—sometimes they take their projects home so they can collaborate more easily, sometimes Sasha needs a shoulder to cry on, sometimes Tim looks up at the shitty cracked ceiling of his flat and feels that old, caved-in anger that he can’t talk about but can’t weather alone, not anymore.

(Sasha is not the touchy-feely sort, never joins them for drinks after work. She’s too busy—she has a boyfriend, after all. A life outside this place.)

It’s not even the first time they’ve been specifically drunk and alone together. They’re goddamn adults. But there’s something about this. This, Sasha perched half-above him on the stained olive sofa he’s kept through three breakups, two moves, and one lost brother, wine-drunk instead of his usual God-I-don’t-care-what-as-long-as-I-can-forget-it-all-drunk, her tracing fingers over the veins of his wrist. Her eyes dark and wide and looking straight into his, questioning but not quite insistent. The old-lady tortoiseshell reading glasses she wears at work still on but a little crooked. A few dark auburn hairs slipped loose from her bun.

(Sasha is not long-haired. Doesn’t ever put her hair in a bun because it won’t fit. It falls around her face in loose curls, not waves, chin-length and light brown.)

Neither of them are sure where, exactly, it tipped over from Sasha teasing him, making an excuse to touch him briefly, into this. That’s how it is with them. He chases that change into something new, something _more,_ just as much as he never needs it to really come. They’re good like this, Sasha and him.

__

__

(Sasha is not his friend anymore. He can’t remember ever fighting with her, can’t remember any reason for the fallout, except for that one time, except that they didn’t talk about it after because he hadn’t thought they needed to, except of course they hadn’t needed to because she smiled at him and grabbed his hand and tackled him to the ground when Prentiss attacked, except now Sasha is not his friend, and he doesn’t understand _why—)_

She’s stopped moving now but hasn’t shifted away, fingertips resting lightly just by his wrist. He can feel her scanning his face, taking in every detail, and Tim is rarely an awkward man when it comes to these things, but he finds himself doing everything in his power not to shut his eyes, hide himself from her gaze. She inhales slowly and does not look away. Tim waits.

“You know,” she says, and pauses. “I feel like there’s something…”

He can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah? You think so?”

“I’m not kidding, Tim.” She straightens her glasses and frowns down at him—it’s all very sexy librarian—but doesn’t move away. He’s still lying back against the opposite arm of the couch, playing at relaxed, and she doesn’t quite loom over him kneeling as she is somewhere around his knees, but she might as well be pinning him down for how trapped he feels.

“Nobody said you were,” Tim offers, and he starts to push himself to a sitting position, but she places a hand on his chest. Not shoving him back down, just stilling him. Holding him where he is. It’s a gentle touch, but it knocks the air out of him all the same, and he thinks he sees a smile flicker across Sasha’s mouth. “I’m not kidding either,” he tells her then. “For the record.” He can’t imagine being kidding. The artifice always crumbles around her just because she’s _her._ He can’t hide from that. He isn’t sure yet if he hates it or not.

(Sasha is not anybody’s confidant. Has never been anybody’s harbor. Does not keep people safe. Sasha is not soft-edged but brave, is not smart but kind.)

Sasha smiles for real then and pulls back and away, settling herself again against her side of the couch. “Good,” she says, voice curling warm around a grin, and Tim breathes out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re killing me, Sasha,” he only half-jokes.

She tilts her head at him inquisitively, lips still fixed in a bright little smile. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. But I _do_ remember what I was saying now.” Tim chuckles, shakes his head, and Sasha of course just barrels on. “Artifact Storage really was awful, Tim, you wouldn’t believe the stuff they have down there. Haunted psychology textbooks, enchanted nineteenth-century syringes, prehistoric dolls that whisper things to you when nobody else is around, creepy calliopes—and it’s definitely calli _o_ pe, by the way, don’t trust whatever Jon tells you—”

“Never do,” Tim interjects, grinning, and Sasha nods, satisfied.

“Damn right! And you know, they just got this _weird_ table in there, no record of it being ordered, but I’d swear I’ve heard of it before. ‘S got the oddest pattern on it…”

He nudges her leg with his foot. “Sounds like it belongs in Artifact Storage. Nothing more supernatural than an optical illusion table.”

(Sasha is not afraid of Artifact Storage.)

She huffs at him and bats his foot away. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he grins with a lascivious wiggle of his eyebrows, bringing his foot right back and sliding it up her shin as she squirms away, laughing far too loud for two in the morning in his terrible apartment with paper-thin walls, and he’d never dream of telling her to be quiet, loves the way her laugh carries and crowds them in this tiny space.

(Sasha is not a loud laugher. She doesn’t even giggle quietly into her hand. Just smiles at jokes quick and clunky, like an afterthought she didn’t particularly want to have.)

Sasha throws herself off the couch in the interest of avoiding his foot (reasonable) and lands in a graceless heap, and she hasn’t stopped laughing, and she still manages to make his whole world condense down into one point when she staggers forward far enough to lean over him, hand coming to rest on his shoulder, so close Tim almost has to cross his eyes to meet hers. He doesn’t want to move. To startle her away. Sasha doesn’t scare easy, but there are some things that are just too important to fuck up the way he always does.

“Maybe I will,” she says softly. “Maybe I will.”

And maybe this one thing of his will be okay. Maybe this much he can keep.

Slowly, Tim takes off her glasses, and Sasha smooths a thumb over the hard edge of his cheekbone, and she kisses him. He kisses back. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

 _We’re good,_ he thinks hazily, _Sasha and I, we’re good._

(Sasha is not.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you all for reading! if you inclined to, please drop me a comment and/or talk to me on tumblr [@boneroutes](https://boneroutes.tumblr.com) (we can yell about tma; fuck knows i've got plenty to say)! thanks again <3


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